


A Prince and His Baron

by PhoenixTakaramono



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series), Helluva Boss (Web Series)
Genre: (Other Ships Come In Later), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Assassination Plot(s), Assassins & Hitmen, Attraction, Baron!Blitzo, Blood and Violence, Courtship, Demon Deals, Demon Hierarchy, Demonic Pacts & Formalities, Developing Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Family Bonding, Family Feels, Getting to Know Each Other, I want to see these two having soft moments together dang it, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Canon, Learning what it means to be part of the Goetia family, M/M, Mainly the rating is because of Stolas's thirst for Blitzo, Mutual Pining, Nobility, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Possessive Behavior, Rituals, Royalty, Sexual Tension, Sleeping with Royalty, Stolas' wife is strangely okay with it, Stolitz - Freeform, There is some humor to be derived from seeing this as a Harlequin Romance of sorts, We Can Never Have Enough Stories of Them Being Both Wholesome and Badasses, dorky dads
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27513817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixTakaramono/pseuds/PhoenixTakaramono
Summary: It was undeniable that there was a new and upcoming threat in Hell, rivaling some of the realm’s most ancient fiends in ruthlessness despite his pedigree. Prince Stolas arranged to meet the hitdemon, ready to confer upon him a title.Their first meeting didn't go exactly according to plan.Blitzø didn't think he'd catch a royal demon's interest in that manner, but as an assassin who's got several centuries under his belt, he might be able to roll with it.(A sort of What-If AU, inspired by demon mythology, canon, and some other things like theHelluva BossInstagram accounts.)TUMBLR:Inspirations, Sneak Peeks & Upcoming Chapter Previews
Relationships: Blitzo/Stolas (Helluva Boss), Blitzo/Stolas Goetia, Charlie Magne/Vaggie, Lilith Magne/Lucifer Magne, Millie/Moxxie (Helluva Boss), Valentino/Vox (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 184





	1. Hippity Hoppity This Imp is Now My Property

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a purely self-indulgent ficlet, haha. But the premiere of S1: EP1 was so good! Ah, I'm so happy with what Vivziepop and her team managed to accomplish. By the by, marks = targets/ victims. This might be Hell where killers are a dime-in-a-dozen, but I like to imagine that seeing a publicly-known hitman out on mundane errands like a grocery run or standing in line to grab coffee can trigger a momentary fight-or-flight response like, _“OMG, is he here to kill me?”_ I'd thought it'd be fun to take what we know so far and throw in some of my own flair. I love me my snazzy dressers. 
> 
> Kudos to anyone who picks up on any hellish references!

**Cover Art Illustration** © [PhoenixTakaramono](https://phoenixtakaramono.tumblr.com/post/637769550782464000/did-i-crawl-out-of-my-2-year-art-block-just-to)

* * *

It was undeniable that there was an upcoming and new threat in Hell, rivaling some of the realm’s most ancient fiends in ruthlessness despite his pedigree. Like a chaotic storm, his killing efficiency—a startling track record of a hundred percent hits and zero failures—made waves in demon society. His calling card was left behind at every crime scene: a business card or a horned smiley face doodled with the victim’s blood on the corpse. With the amount of dark energy consumed and the carnage wreaked and demonic pacts made, they cemented his candidacy as a new, potential Overlord of Hell.

A rift opened in the air, a pentagram inscribed in red. An avian face emerged from it, eyes glowing crimson as the rest of the owl-like creature’s dark plumage followed. A long, slender leg extended from the portal, soon joined by another. The tail feathers were the last to leave, trailing behind the creature like a long gray train.

The rift closed behind the regal creature as it stood at its full height, peering at the gargantuan signage erected ostentatiously from a high-rise building. Blinking neon lights illuminated the words I.M.P. in bright white against the backdrop of Hell’s scarlet sky. On both sides of the building were a pair of horns crafted from aluminum, striped like black-and-white peppermint. 

A breeze ruffled the miniver, a dense white fur that made up the cape’s shoulder region and high collar. “‘Immediate Murder Professonals,’ was it?” The voice from the hawk-like beak was a cultured, silken cadence. Reflecting on the architecture, he remarked, “...Strange. A harlequin circus isn’t what I’d pictured for the headquarters of fearsome hitdemons.”

A gilded, blue leather bound grimoire was secreted back into the velvet folds of his mantle. This sketchy side of town was far from the affluent and sophisticated provinces a being of Stolas’ calibre frequented. The scent of sewage was stronger, with a sulfuric undertone not unlike the chemicals mortals used to erase bloodstains. Yet no matter where he’d looked, no Hellborn or Sinner paid Stolas’ presence attention. The prince might as well be invisible.

 _Intriguing._ They must be used to seeing high-end clientele walk in and out of the building. His beak lifted, showing a curve at the edges where the hard bill faded into white feathers. 

“...Blitzø,” Stolas crooned, striding inside the building, “without the ‘o.’”

That was the demon that Stolas, one of the Goetia Princes of Hell, was to meet for himself, to determine if the imp deserved the coveted title and his own territory in the kingdom that was ruled by the great royal family—Lucifer Magne and his queen, Lilith.

As a hitdemon who had gained a foothold in their realm with his assassination business, it was a tale of an underdog rising from the slums and alleyways, clawing his way into a sphere of influence and power. Imps were one of the lowest classes despite being Hellborn, red-skinned tricksters known for their subservient but mischievous nature. Throughout history, they’d served as attendants—or as amusement—for other demons and devils of higher status. Some had even been contracted as familiars—indentured servants bound by oath.

Yet this Blitzø— _without the “o,”_ Stolas reminded himself—saw fit to break that glass ceiling and challenge the status quo. No one had thought a lesser demon would be able to accomplish that ambition.

That was until _he_ came into the picture—and curated an impressive reputation for himself and his company in the underworld, eventually becoming endorsed and sponsored by patrons of varying statuses. There was no anonymity. His commercial jingles and billboard ads were prevalent in the overpopulated nine circles, many of them depicting his own face. The imp made no attempts at hiding the services he offered; it was public knowledge what he did professionally. 

Once a hit was ordered, it was carried out without fail; no one was exempt from whichever method of execution the imp had decided for their mark—be it by poison or by bullet or by more violent methods like strangulation or the clean cut of a blade across the throat. The victim count he’d accumulated broke records.

The glass doors closed behind him as Stolas took in the striated mauve wallpaper that made up the interior. Tabloid cut-outs were framed on the walls, as well as posters advertising a circus that seemed to be composed of imps. There was also a bulletin besieged with Wanted papers and bounties tacked onto the corkboard.

“Hello, welcome to I.M.P., where we service all your murderous needs and desires for a price.” The greeting was performed in a listless voice, as though the hellhound receptionist had it memorized by rote. The smoky charcoal eyeshadow and her goth-punk attire reminded Stolas so much of his own teenage daughter, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge in his chest. “Do you have an appointment—?”

Her question was cut off when her moonlit irises launched up her red sclera, and he saw her fur bristle at the sight of him. Her ears shot up from her voluminous grey mane and, were she not sitting down, he imagined her tail would be as well. She straightened in her chair, setting the magazine spread down on the desk. Her attention was focused on the golden crownlet of his top hat.

“Why, yes,” he replied, dispensing with formality, “I do have an appointment.”

Stolas didn’t have to ask for her name to know the hellhound was known as Loona, the adoptive daughter of the imp who’d founded their company. In the file his servants had accumulated for him, the hellhound, Loona, and the two imps, Moxxie and Millie, were noted to be the original driving force that worked under Blitzø when I.M.P. had been a startup that’d accepted any new assignment.

“I hope you’ll permit me access into your father’s office.”

A wrinkle formed in the area between her eyes and her snout. “...You’re an hour-and-a-half early but suit yourself.” Placing her muzzle on her palm, she pointed to her right. “Seventh floor. He’s supposed to meet a group before you, but you can cut in line. Feel free to ignore any demons that want to hitch a ride with you.”

“Much obliged,” he said, doffing his top hat as he strolled toward the elevator. Stolas had no doubt the crossbone-rotary phone on the receptionist’s desk would be used to alert the head imp that their distinguished guest had arrived early for their interview.

Entering, he had to bend a little at his hindlegs to fit inside.

When the steel doors closed behind him, Stolas pressed a sharp talon against the button and the elevator lurched under him. 

As he waited in suspense, his talons tucked behind his back, a familiar, upbeat jingle graced his hearing. His head swiveled in the direction of the overhead speaker.

_“When you want somebody gone and you don’t want to wait too long, call the Immediate…Murder…Professionals! Hand grenade or cyanide, we’ll make it look like suicide, the Immediate…Murder…Professionals!”_

The singer sang quickly through the rest of the jingle as though he had a gun pressed to his back. 

_“We do our jobs so well, because we come straight out of hell. We’ll kill your husband or wife; we’ll even let you keep the knife! We’re the Immediate…Murder…Professionals!”_

When the jingle moved onto the next one, Stolas focused on the map directory screwed onto the space above the buttons. Each level, with the exception of the Main Floor, had an interesting designation such as the Murder Lab on the eighth floor or the Weapon Armory on the fifth.

If the meeting went well, Stolas could easily foresee himself using I.M.P.’s services in the future. Ordering the deaths of mortals in the living world, instead of having to be the one to do the grisly deed himself, might free up his timetable to pursue other ventures and passion projects such as astronomy or herbology or rock-collecting, should the organization find his requests acceptable. 

He had heard the head of I.M.P. was a capricious fellow, a free spirit who unpredictably rejected cases for no other reason than disliking the client despite their status or wealth. One notable rejection had been the hit ordered on the Radio Demon—a powerful Overlord with eldritch powers—who was seen frequenting the company of the great princess of Hell, her partner, and her motley crew of companions.

That particular client had been laughed out of the offices and into the streets, the hysterical cackles only dying after an hour or so had gone by. The same Sinner vanished days after, although no one knew if the lesser demon had received their comeuppance under Blitzø’s orders or if it was because “the Creole bastard” Alastor himself had heard word of the ridiculousness.

_“Kids die for freeeeeeeee—!”_

_Ding!_

The doors slammed open, and Stolas was greeted to a loud _crack._ Confetti and streamers blinded him as two voices shouted, “Welcome!”

He glanced down at the two tiny red creatures whose horns only reached the height just above his thigh. The dark-haired imp was staring starry-eyed up at him, her heart-shaped face cupped in her hands, her grin revealing the endearing gap in her front teeth. The belt over her wide hips was strapped with an assortment of daggers and tactical knives. The male imp with freckles and white hair was more reserved, eyeing his companion and Stolas as he lowered the silver party cracker in his hands. Their eyes resembled a pair of yellow moons.

So these were the married imps in Blitzø’s inner circle.

They were as opposite as opposites can be, visually and in personality. The female imp was very much a tomboy with her ripped leggings and short haircut, whereas the male imp was sharply dressed in a suit and bowtie. Stolas found them adorable. 

“What an enchanting greeting.” Picking the confetti and streamers from his feathers, he strode into the room, straightening back to his full height. His attention fell on the male imp and, for the life of him, he could not place a finger on why this contract killer felt...different. “Please. No need for ceremony.”

“Your highness…?” The imp’s eyes were narrowed, and his expression suggested that his brain was trying to piece together the probability of being in the same breathing space of a venerated and untouchable existence of royalty. There was a hoarseness to his voice as he entreated the owl-demon, “Isn’t your interview with our boss in an hour and a half?”

“Moxxie,” the female imp admonished. Her voice had a pleasant twang. She placed a hand on Moxxie’s shoulder. “Don’t be like that. We might as well let ‘em in.” 

“Millie—!” His protest was silenced by the slender finger pressed to his lips.

“Hush now, sweetie.” She smiled at him, embracing his forearm. An besotted smile spread across his face when she pecked his cheek, and their slim tails unconsciously weaved together to meet at the arrowed tips. 

Such an open demonstration between the lovers made Stolas’ beak tingle. He thought enviously, _Oh, to be young and in love...._

Millie’s head turned to their guest, and she beamed up at Stolas. With the charm of a Southern belle, she welcomed, “Well, c’mon in! The boss has been on the edge of his seat. It’s not everyday we are blessed to have Lucifer’s right hand in our part of town.”

Moxxie glanced over his shoulder. Extending him a figurative olive branch, the weapons specialist offered, “Would you like us to make a run to Sinbucks for iced coffee—or to a winery for something...vintage? Our stock of refreshments was depleted recently, so the only thing we have is our water cooler.”

Funny; according to the reports, I.M.P. had moved past their begone days of financial woes. They made thousands to a million on a hit, depending on how high-profile their target was.

“No need to trouble yourselves.” Stolas supposed he should keep up appearances as a wise and properly hedonistic patriarch. But as much as he’d like to indulge in his vices, he was hesitant about what the imps considered to be _vintage_.

Millie asked, “What’s it like being the commander of twenty-six legions of demons?”

 _Tiresome. A bore. Uneventful...._

“An honor,” Stolas said instead, letting himself be guided. 

The sound of cloven feet treading the carpet echoed in Stolas’ hearing. The four toes of each of his feet sunk into the plush carpeting with each step.

He scanned the premises, rotating his head left and right. There was an empty conference table and a white marker board scrawled with misspellings and a chart detailing the performance rate of all the employed assassins—including any subcontracted killers. Of all the employees, their boss overtook the rest in this month’s casualty count.

“Here we are,” Millie announced.

To the right of the door was a metal desk with a bas-relief of thorny vines spiraling from the horned eye with bat wings. Hanging on the banded wall was a clock and a long line of placards that declared the employee of the month. Stolas recognized the two imps and the hellhound that made up the majority of the placards, but the remaining names didn’t hold much meaning to him. On an adjacent wall, above the fish tank of electric hell eels, was a golden fiddle.

The recent employee of the month rapped his knuckles on the glass pane of the door. 

“—Give me a minute.” The hiss was muffled, but the occupant’s voice could be heard on the other side. “Ow, fuck. I’m finishing something.”

“Sir,” Moxxie insisted, turning the doorknob, “your... _special_ guest is here.”

“Mox,” the voice had lowered into a dark threat that sent an inexplicable thrill down Stolas’ spine, “don’t you dare—!”

The door swung open.

And the trio found themselves eye-to-eye with a slender figure who had a bleeding claw tip raised to his mouth. Tearing his gaze away from the cat’s-eye stone on the fingerless gauntlet, Stolas stole a perusing look over his features. 

For a lower-born demon, the imp was striking. A little less than half of his right face was overtaken by white, a sign of vitiligo—a skin condition where lighter splotches replaced pigment—that interrupted the otherwise russet skin. And at the center of his forehead was a birthmark, a demonic marking that resembled an inkblot from a Rorschach test. It was evident this was an older fiend who had reached maturity cultivating centuries worth of experience. 

He was also the tallest imp Stolas had ever seen—not as tall as the average demon, or as willowy as the owl-demon, but he and that impressive set of black-and-white striped horns were of different stature compared to the pair that had accompanied Stolas. 

“And voilà.” Blitzø’s voice was flat. From the pair of yellow moons, the vibrant red of his slitted eyes bore into them. He spoke carefully around the finger still in his mouth, “You couldn’t just wait a minute?”

“Sir!” Moxxie gesticulated wildly in Blitzø’s general direction. “What the hell is this?”

An old, arcane energy lingered in the office. The floor was covered in incomplete symbols traced in red liquid which had oxidized in the air. Although many inscriptions were missing, its circular shape seemed to suggest a summoning circle. 

“Isn’t it obvious?” Blitzø remarked. 

Stolas caught a glimpse of a forked tongue when the imp retracted his claw from his mouth, the knowledge of it making his insides quiver. 

Blitzø clarified, “Some bitch wanted me as her familiar. I canceled out the glyphs with my blood.” He was pulling on a dark bespoke overcoat he’d draped over the arm of the high wingback chair, buttoning the coat over a high-collared dress shirt that Stolas thought to be a fetching shade of maroon. The skull piece on the white band held the frilled collar in place over the length of his neck. All and all, the appearance he presented to the world was of the dastardly sort.

“I was going to clean up but since _a certain somebody_ rudely charged in—”

“Oh, allow me.” With the ease of a conductor, weaving his talons in the air, Stolas traced the familiar sigils of his seal. 

With swift efficiency, the floorboards were swept clean of blood until the floor was spick and span. Even the walls sparkled, the circus posters and any framed tickets or photos cleaned of grime and dust. Beneath the dartboard, the steel of the collection of battle axes and halberds glinted under the recessed lights.

When the scarlet glow faded, he was met with three gaping imps. 

“What. The actual. Hell?” he heard one of the two imps beside him whisper within earshot.

Stolas tried not to preen being under their admiring stares. Magick was not uncommon in the nine circles, but not everyone could wield such sorcery—especially without aid of a spellbook, staff, or grimoire. Oftentimes, it required one’s own energy to be expended and it took months-to-years of practice to attain any semblance of mastery.

For Stolas, it was a simple cleaning spell—one that he’d learned when he’d been an owlet. But for lesser demons, he might as well have demonstrated the advanced cosmic spellwork from a bottomless repertoire.

However, one reaction was questionable. Stolas tilted his head. He’d heard rumors of the company’s founder having access to some dark ritualistic magick of his own. 

The first to collect his wits, Blitzø hopped onto the cushion. He was gazing up at Stolas as though he were really _seeing_ him for the first time.

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” His voice was like fine whiskey, a subtle low rumble to the ears despite sounding half sardonic and half secretive. His mouth was pulled into a smirk, revealing yellowed fangs whose sharp tips could easily draw blood on the tenderest flesh. “An honest to goodness samaritan, it’s almost refreshing to see.”

The innermost of Stolas’ three eyelids blinked. Twice.

With the cavalier way the imp sat on the striped chair, the image presented itself very much like a stately demon greeting his audience on his throne. “C’mon in then, you privileged asshole. _Mi casa es su casa.”_ He gestured for him to take a seat. “Mox, shut the door. You and Mills can go...I don’t know, screw, or review our next assignment or something.”

With an affronted glower, Moxxie did exactly just that. The last thing they saw was Millie enthusiastically waving goodbye just as the door _clicked_ shut.

Removing his top hat, Stolas slunk over to the proffered armchair on the other side of the desk. Dark talons smoothed over the topmost feathers, flattening any errant tufts of grey fluff and making himself appear presentable as he sank down on the seat, placing the hat in his lap. 

The head assassin’s office was much more somber in interior than the warmth of the rooms outside. It was devoid of color, with red accents here and there. Behind the headrest was a bulletin board riddled with drawings—of horses?—and headshots both old and new, with a red string connecting some of the photographs together. Mounted on the wall above it was a wooden plaque, displaying a pair of heirloom rifles outfitted with a scope and other modifications—such as flames painted on the stock, or the beautiful filigree engraved on the sides of the receiver.

Upon closer inspection, he noted the other—more mundane—paraphilia in view. On the left were two bobbleheads which reminded Stolas of the married couple that’d escorted him to their boss’s office. A yellow smartphone was lying face-down beside Blitzø’s elbow.

A claw tip was lazily tapping the painted head of one of the figurines, making the head bounce vigorously. His other hand was out of sight under the desk. “So what can we do for you, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome? You arranged the time with Loona a week ago; I didn’t think you’d come _this_ early.”

It was inexplicable, and Stolas was no owlet whose feathers were easily ruffled by flirtatious exchanges, but that devil-may-care attitude did _things_ to Stolas. Shifting in his seat, he shamelessly crossed his legs in one fluid motion, gauging his interest. If he’d noticed the imp’s gaze being involuntarily reeled down toward the long stretch of legs the owl-demon was showing off, he didn’t call attention to it. 

Stolas leaned in, planting both elbows on the desk.

There was a lingering copperish scent that wafted into his olfactory senses. Rumor had it that Blitzø’s coat was dyed black with the blood shed by his enemies. That no matter how clean or how impeccably dressed he was, the imp wore the scent like cologne, hinting at his profession.

Stolas was slammed with an instant need to discover how far that scent went.

“I was to determine your suitability as a new Overlord, Blitzy,” he crooned, gliding a talon back and forth across the surface. “After all, you’ve been running amok throughout the nine circles without a care in the world. And, well, us _powerful demons_ notice when a lowly commoner starts reigning terror.”

“...What did you just call me?”

“Suffice to say, _Blitzy,_ I like what I see. Your media appearances do not lend you justice.” His smirk was like the flash of a sharpened blade in the night. “It’s not everyday we see an imp taking a seat of power.”

Blitzø’s eyes narrowed, stilling the bobbing motion of the toy with a claw. “You got a problem with me being in one?”

Stolas smiled properly. “You misunderstand.” His eyes formed into crescents, the red hue glowing brighter over the flattened plane of his cheeks. He appeared every bit of the Goetia Prince that he was, an entity hailing from a hierarchy of ancient bloodlines—distinct from the powerful new bloods of the modern generations. “You wish to prove yourself. _To make history._ And I do enjoy manipulating history for my personal amusement.”

“Uh-huh.” The tone of his retort matched his nonplussed expression. His tail flicked indolently in the air.

“In light of...recent events, I wish to make a proposition to you.”

“Spit it out.”

The corners of his mouth lifted. “Do forgive me if I’d prefer to swallow instead.”

An incredulous chortle spluttered out of the imp, his tail swishing back and forth more violently. But he didn’t seem offended by the sexual innuendo. Containing his mirth, Blitzø bade, “Hey now, take it easy. I want to hear your proposition first.”

Demons were a proud, cruel, and selfish race—possessive and obsessive to a fault. It was in their nature. If one offered something, it was always backed by an ulterior motive. Their kind loved indulging in their desires; sticklers for infernal traditions and structure as they could be, they weren’t like mortals with their human world logic and taboos.

“How about we forgo this little qualifications protocol, hmm? Go against conventional norms? All it’d take is one simple endorsement from me and all of Hell will recognize you as the newest prodigal threat.”

“I’d like to skip this farce of an interview as much as you do.... But I do have one question.”

“Speak.”

“Do I have to be,” his claws curved to form air-quotes, “an ‘Overlord?’”

Stolas stared at him. For once, he was speechless.

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful our great and almighty King would send you to me to suss out if I’m ‘worthy’ or not. Maybe at one point when I was younger, I’d love the power and prestige that comes with. I’d practically kiss anyone’s boots back then. But business is booming; there’s always somebody to kill. I don’t have the time to be managing a company _and_ be dragged into turf wars or challenged by power-hungry dumbfucks. It can get old real quick, and I’m a very busy imp. Trust me.” His spiked tail pointed toward the bulletin board. “I’m up to my neck with client schedules and picking through their requests.”

“...Then what exactly is your counterproposal?” Though he remained composed outwardly, his thoughts were like a sailboat being tossed about in turbulent waters.

“Can’t I take any other title?” A claw was flicked toward him, his palm raised up. The black of his eyelids showed in his half-lidded gaze. “You’re one of the seven Goetia Princes of all the seventy-two demons in the _Lesser Key of Solomon_. Can’t you just sire me, and I can declare this building—or this imp city—as my slice of land where I can ‘tax’ my ‘subjects?’ For title, I’m thinking...a _landed baron…._ Yeah, that’ll do nicely....”

The ridge of his eye socket lifted, pulling the red sclera up. “Not a dukedom? Or a marquisate?” 

“Baronage,” Blitzø insisted. “Baron Blitzø. B.B. Has a nicer ring, don’t you think? That acronym sounds much catchier on a business card than, I don’t know, D.B. or M.B. I couldn’t give a shit if it’s lowest in rank among your frou-frou circles.”

He suppressed a smile. He’d initially thought the imp had made a mistake. A baron was the lowest order of nobility. Below royalty, in descending order of rank in the hierarchy, the titles would be: duke, marquess, earl, viscount, and then a baron. 

_So it was for that unusual, simple reason…._

Stolas sank back against the armchair, clasping his deceptively slim talons together over his top hat as he turned over the request in his head. Conferring a territorial lordship was indeed within his abilities as one of the crowned princes of Hell, and he had no objections if the imp wished to declare this town under his fief. 

But neither assassins nor contracted killers had any need of title or property. In the traditional sense, they were nomads who were always on foot, uprooting their livelihoods—and even their identities—on a case-by-case basis depending on where their marks took them. Having lives outside their careers was a liability. They were private individuals.

Blitzø and his associates lived on the other spectrum. There was not a single demon in Hell who hadn’t seen their faces, whether it be out in the open or as a brand presence in the Voxflix originals.

Stolas feigned incomprehension. He inquired, “And your legion, _Blitzy?”_

A flash of displeasure made itself known on Blitzø’s features. “I may not have _however many_ legions of demons under my thumb like the rest of you. But, for now, my employees and family are enough. Anyway, the way I see it, I don’t want to step on anyone’s toes. I’m a damned-good killer. I just figure I can leverage a fancy title—and land—for business. That’s it. I’m not asking for a crown or anything ridiculous.”

“Oh, do elaborate.”

“...I mean, you’ve seen the ads. And the online reviews. My priority has always been getting this company running from the ground up. As it stands, I.M.P. provides a quality service no one else can find in Hell.” His teeth flashed in a macabre grin. “What other company can boast a hundred-percent successful kill rate like we do?”

At that instant, Stolas understood.

It was all a matter of respect. For an imp, reputation superseded all else. Raising the perceived public image of “the family”—or, in this case, _his business_ —was the bait to reel somebody like Blitzø in. Like how Stolas zealously guarded his nest, Blitzø’s priority was his burrow. Riches, power, or status mattered little in its wake.

Talons sank into the soft downy feathers on his chest. _“Blitzy....”_ Seeing the imp cringe from the way he’d crooned the pet name, he amended, “Blitz, why didn’t you say so from the start? I can give you all of that.”

_And so much more._

Blitzø sent him a long and measuring look. “...Who do I have to kill?”

Stolas contemplated him a moment longer before waving a hand cavalierly. He responded in good humor, “All in due time. My duties require monthly engagement with the world of the living. I daresay I may call upon your services when I have need of it.”

The tail stilled in the air, curved at the end into a question mark. “So what do you want from me—?”

 _“What I’m after….”_ The legs of the chair screeched as Stolas shot up, swinging a hindleg up onto the desk. His top hat was upturned, falling onto the floor. The hem of his surcoat trailed the floorboards with the length of his plumage.

Realization dawned in those bewitching eyes when the talons shoved forward to the space alongside Blitzø’s horns, effectively caging the imp and making him slam up against his backrest in reflex. The tips of the three spikes on Blitzø’s back lightly scored the striped upholstery.

Stolas’ spine curved as he leaned down, placing his face close. His mouth ghosting in the space above his, he could see the conflict play out over the imp’s frozen expression as the heat of their bodies caressed them.

Hearing the drum of his heartbeat, Stolas crooned, “...Is for you to satisfy my curiosity. It’s been so _long….”_ He’d nearly groaned, elongating the syllable to express his frustration.

He might be married, but it had been from an arranged political engagement. A slave to his own dark lusts, he loved women and men with equal fervor, and often pursued both with an unquenchable hunger in his free time when he was by his lonesome. Seduction was oftentimes a matter of persistence, and no one had ever denied him. 

His wife knew of his dalliances with the lower social class but didn’t begrudge him of his indiscretions so long as he came home to his family and treated her as amicably as he always had. It had, however, been awhile since his last rut, and it’d left him unusually dissatisfied and unusually driven.

“...So you want to get your rocks off with an interspecies one-night stand, your highness.” Despite his racing pulse, Blitzø’s voice was level—dry, even—as though he’d expected such an outcome. 

“Stolas, please.”

“...Stolas,” he acknowledged. He’d tested the name in his mouth like fine wine, making Stolas shiver. Blitzø noticed, sending him a knowing look beneath half-lidded reptilian eyes. “Does it get your dick hard being fucked by those supposedly lower than you?”

The frank way he spoke—crass and unfiltered—to a dignified existence that Stolas was meant to represent made his blood run south. He’d considered his exquisite taste in fine food and wine to be surpassed only by his taste in sexual partners. There was something deliciously base and forbidden in ruining his lofty and noble image with carnal acts of lust—naked, sweaty bodies tangled together in the sheets of his bed—and having his body being sodomized and manhandled until he finally came and drifted off into the afterglow. 

Glowing red eyes roved down curiously, appreciatively over the trim, limber body hiding behind the buttoned-up overcoat. If the adage was true, he was certain the imp hid one of the finest cocks he’d ever had the pleasure to behold. He wondered if Blitzø carried a firearm on his person at all times.

“I’d like to grab you by the horns,” Stolas remarked, sliding his talons behind one of them, feeling his prey tense beneath his claws, “rip your clothes off and ride you like a prized stallion until you’re crying, pleading for sweet release.”

Blitzø was wide-eyed and his mouth fell slack.

“Overfilling me to the brim, with you breeding me all day, all night, with no rest until I have you destroyed and purring my—”

A pair of claws clamped down on Stolas’ hips, squeezing just the way that Stolas liked it. A deep trench had been dug between the imp’s brow ridges. “I get it. You want to get fucked until you see stars. Goddamnit, Stolas, you could make the Virgin Mary blush with your dirty talk.”

Stolas was curious. “Are you?”

“What, a virgin?” Blitzø scoffed, as though he found the notion ludicrous. _“No.”_

A pleased smile spread. “Even better.”

Just as his talons tiptoed down the red coat buttons, before they could descend past the waistline, his wrist was secured in a tight grip. Skepticism lingered in Blitzø’s expression as he pulled Stolas’ wandering talons away from him. He demanded, “That’s it? I just sleep with you once and you’ll make me a baron of Hell? _With land?”_

“I don’t see why not. I am a demon of my word. And it’s a simple enough arrangement to confer you title and territory. I’m more than willing to oblige.”

Blitzø seemed to mull over his words, on the verge of blurting something out before ruthlessly suppressing it. He glanced out the blinds of the window, spotting the red skies turning purple. The assassin seemed determined to ignore the erotic expulsion of breath against his neck as Stolas held himself back from nipping the sliver of skin. 

As casually as he could with the heated gaze on him, Blitzø said, “As hot and bothered as you are, and as much as I’m sure you’d like to know what it might feel like getting bent over my desk, what you want doesn’t sound like a quickie. And I got a massacre to take care of soon…. What are you doing tonight?”

“That all depends on you, Blitz. What are _you_ doing tonight?”

A fanged smirk answered him as he retracted his hands. “You.” 

His feathers trembled from the anticipation—and sheer want. The whites of his pupils dilated; his eyes, mesmerized by those long, efficient claws, watched as Blitzø reached for his smartphone, unlocking the screen.

“Do you have a number I can message you at?” Pausing for a moment, he glanced up at Stolas. “Can I even _get_ your number?”

A red smartphone was hastily dug out. The dark maroon decal of the crown peeked between his talons, and he could feel his heart beat a little faster when the imp’s uncertainty melted into astonishment. “Here. Let me.” Excitement colored his accented voice as they performed the rite of exchanging numbers, and Stolas soon found himself admiring the rare treasure stored in his Contacts.

He had to promise the imp that he wouldn’t abuse his privilege, and to only call him when necessary—preferably for business inquiries only. “Keep it professional,” he’d been summarily warned.

 _But he didn’t say anything about sexting or scheduled calls…._ Stolas did like it when his prey played hard to get.

There was a sharp knock at the door, making them jump. Someone cleared their throat. “Pardon me, sir.” The door creaked open and a familiar white-haired imp poked his head in just as Stolas pocketed his phone. 

Moxxie scrutinized the manner that his boss and the prince were looking at anywhere but at each other, and the strange tension in their body language. His claws tightened on the doorknob, half-wandering if today was the day he would need to help his boss commit regicide. He asked warily, “Should I ask?”

“What is it, Mox?” Blitzø’s voice was barely a repressed growl. “We were just finishing up. Don’t tell me ‘the clients’ are here already.”

“...They’re here.”

 _“Shit._ Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” He sprung to his feet. Just as he was about to chase Stolas out, he noticed the prince had straightened up, prim and proper once more.

“I shalln’t take much more of your time, gentlemen.” Stolas was soothing down his mantle, running his talons over the wrinkles in the folds.

“Millie and I are ready on your order,” Moxxie informed Blitzø, his expression relieved from the grimness before. He warned, “Don’t take too long. They’re waiting in the lobby.”

“Try not to spook them!” Blitzø called out before Moxxie slipped back out. He’d been about to suggest stealthily sneaking the owl prince out the fire escape, when he noticed him tracing the sigils of his seal. His brows drew down. “What are you—?”

A portal tore through the fabric of reality, bisecting a wall of his office. He could see a glimpse of the spacious bedroom on the other side, with a wall full of framed portraits and a bed that could easily fit three or four demons. A crown insignia patterned the walls in dark gray diamonds.

A shadow fell over him as Stolas bent at the waist, a set of talons reaching down to brush up against his sharp jawline. A warm aroma of tea and something else that reminded Blitzø of the fresh scent of overturned soil after rainfall suffused into his senses. “I’ll see you tonight, _baron,”_ Stolas whispered with a strange trill at the end, filled with carnal intent.

Before Blitzø could retort with a witty comeback, the hand left him. 

With a single gait, those long legs took the prince over the rift. The last he saw was a wink before the portal closed behind Stolas, leaving Blitzø staring at the striped wallpaper of his office. A sense of foreboding weighed his limbs down.

_What a strange bird…._

“...Don’t think about it, Blitz,” he told himself in spite of his bewilderment. “You’ve got a job to do.” Without ceremony, Blitzø snapped his fingers, the ornament on his gauntlet igniting in a burst of amber light. 

A ball of black magic, like ember, unfurled above his claws. It soon leapt forth, coating the office in pitch black darkness. 

His unsettled thoughts fell to the wayside when the shroud of darkness fell like curtains, and the walls were covered with racks showcasing his personal collection of armament. It was enough to supply a small army, ranging from hand grenades to rifles to the more eccentric weaponry. Looking at them filled his chest with warmth. 

The heels of his boots echoed in the reconfigured office as he sped past the cache of shoes with spring-loaded hidden blades, past the chainsaws, past the crossbows, and past the glass cases with the swords and daggers.

His eyes lit up when he caught sight of a row of illuminated cases. 

“Finally! Let’s have some _fun!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It sure went from zero to a hundred really fast, huh? This is just a silly headcanon of mine, but the bigger your horns—coughBlitzocough—are, it’s an indication of how old/experienced or powerful you are among your horned kind. And it’s also an indication of something else...down below. So the way it’s interpreted in the fic?
> 
> ~~Stolas: _Mmm, big horns, yes, you are a dom. Top me, daddy._~~
> 
> I like the idea that while, yes, these two dads are dorks, they are also dangerous af. Ever since I saw the pilot episode and the first episode of S1, I’ve been thinking nonstop about the various anthropomorphic denizens of Hell, especially Stolas—the first episode shows the birb with a beak, ~~teeth,~~ and tongue, huh?—and then I saw the wholesome Helluva Boss instagrams…and, well, suffice to say, I’ve probably given too much thought about their anatomies, haha. (Is the texture of Blitzo’s skin like a scaleless snake? I see their designs and I’m basically looking at a spiked fire salamander and a fluffy owl...how does that even work???) 


	2. A Riding Crop and Leather Boots Make a Deadly Combination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blitzø fixed him with a grim stare. “Do you think the prince is into vanilla sex or do you think a riding crop is necessary to make a strong first impression?”
> 
> Moxxie choked on his saliva.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an entirely ridiculous ficlet, _I know._ No need to kinkshame me, haha. A shoutout to **_Leo, ArtisticDawn21, Wizard, ShadowPearl87, TurkishDelite, GabxLuci2796, blockhead,_** and **_Doza,_** and an extra special thanks to **_toomanyshipst-t_** on tumblr. Thank you for your support and encouragement!
> 
>  ** _Warning,_** _viewer discretion is advised for this chapter._ (I usually abide by my personal philosophy of not injecting NSFW scenes this early into a story because I like to build up to the emotional “payoff” to make it impactful, but I can make exceptions so long as it’s necessary or contributes to a form of progress.) The more risqué NSFW content is down near the bottom, _so you can skip that portion entirely if it’s not your cup of tea._
> 
> [The SFW version will be on my tumblr](https://phoenixtakaramono.tumblr.com/post/635911251024805888/a-prince-and-his-baron-ch2).
> 
> Onwards!

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

Red splashed onto the walls with each bullet that tore through flesh and bone. It was a one-sided bloodbath. 

Adrenaline was pumping through his system. Blitzø deftly unloaded the rest of the magazine into the demon’s skull, riding the recoil up his arms for three direct shots. The silencer reduced the tiny cannon blast of the flintlock pistol to a suppressed _click, click, click._ Brain matter and bone shrapnel decorated the wall from the exit wounds.

Gurgles were heard as a homemade garrote wire was tightened around the neck of the demon Moxxie was strangling. Claws were clambering uselessly over the hot, sticky blood pouring like a fountain over the thin piano wire. Through the wire, from his vantage with his knee pressed against the mark’s back, he could feel the thug’s life fading. The struggling soon became sluggish. 

With a firm yank, the head was decapitated clean from the spinal cord. 

Watching the head roll onto the floor, Moxxie formed an expression of disgust. It wasn’t that he was particularly squeamish, but he could already imagine the task of cleanup afterwards. He wiped the wire on the corpse’s clothing and pocketed the garrote handles. “Honey?” 

“Almost done, sweetie!” Millie was poetry in motion, fast and nimble. Coming within striking distance of all the crumpled bodies, she plunged the blade of a knife into the back of the head where the skull met the spine, ensuring that if they weren’t dead, _they were now._ A giggle escaped her whenever she saw a body jerk, confirming the few who’d hoped to play dead.

There was a muffled scream. Tearing his gaze from his wife, Moxxie saw their boss giving a swift downward kick, dislocating a goon’s knee with a sickening _crunch._ Aiming the steel barrel down, Blitzø depressed the trigger. 

Sparks and smoke exploded out as the hammer fell and the gunpowder ignited. At close range, the ball had left a sizable hole in the henchperson’s face where the projectile had entered.

“...I brought a bazooka out for nothing,” Moxxie heard Blitzø grousing beneath his breath. 

If his wife wasn’t out there enjoying herself, she and Moxxie would have shared a helpless roll of their eyes. To this day, barring the sniper rifle, Moxxie didn’t know why Blitzø favored the flintlock—fancy as his was. He assumed the favoritism must be for a sentimental or aesthetic reason, since such pistols had a tendency to misfire. Even though the boss’ had been modified for rapid fire, with six rounds maximum, it was still tedious to reload. 

“Alright, kids.” Blitzø kicked the fresh corpse aside, ridding himself of the dead weight in his path. Dark energy swirled at his feet, being sucked into the cat’s-eye stones like pitch-black mist. “It’s a job well done, wouldn’t you say?” He kept his finger on the trigger. 

Blitzø looked and sounded bored out of his mind; it was evident his mind was elsewhere, even as the last of the dark energy dissipated from sight. 

With a vivacity that oftentime seemed limitless, it was rare for their sarcastic and wisecracking boss to sport a pensive expression. His penchant for wreaking chaos and unpredictability was something Moxxie had unfortunately gotten to know firsthand. He’d witnessed the times where the tall imp stood over a mark with an expression that could only be described as a thunderstorm. He’d also seen the soft, doting looks their boss threw at his only daughter. The many facets of Blitzø left Moxxie bewildered and unsure.

Despite the gore and viscera and the mess of blood, the imps’ clothes miraculously remained clean and intact. Even the leather soles of their boss’ black riding boots avoided the stains on the floor. There was a long silence as they checked the body count, making sure no one was missing. 

Nine damned souls. Nine deaths. Not one left alive.

Their boss was bent on one knee, carving his calling card into a demon’s side. Having done this ritual hundreds of times, each cut was precise and no movement was unnecessary. Millie, equally familiar with the formality, was his assistant, helping out with the remaining victims. She made deft work of Blitzø’s signature in the form of a simplified horned imp, her innate talent with the blade shining through.

The air was filled with the smell of copper and gunpowder.

“Why didn’t we just poison them again?” Blitzø abruptly asked, cutting through the silence. “Save us the trouble of wasting energy on these small fries?”

Moxxie had been knelt down beside Millie, his tail swishing from side-to-side. “Because, _sir,”_ he explained, for what felt like the tenth time, through gritted teeth, “we’ve agreed that chemical warfare is off-limits. Didn’t you listen? Even if we just use nerve agents, even if we wear gas masks, the toxin’s still going to linger in the room long after we dispose of the bodies. And. That’s. Dangerous.” 

Arsenic, cyanide, and ricin were among the lethal poisons they’ve used in the past—as well as ingestion of nightshade or hemlock that had been grounded-up—but they were slower-acting. There was also an additional risk of the mark surviving, or of the mark discovering why their health had taken a nosedive for the worst. 

The biggest pain of death by poison, besides figuring out how to come into contact with the mark and slip it into their drink without being noticed, was the process that came before it. No chemist was hired in I.M.P. Although they could MacGyver a makeshift toxin through a recipe they discovered on the Hellnet, they’d still have to acquire the chemicals or dangerous plants or animals. 

What Moxxie—and even Loona, in the rare times that her father managed to wheedle her into coming along—hated most were the unannounced field trips their boss took them on as “teamwork bonding experiences.” He distinctly recalled the harsh sun beating down his back where he was forced to pick the roots of an obscure but deadly fiendish plant, the heart-pounding adrenaline of running away from a rampaging beast, and the spike of terror of being in a room with a drug kingpin and the many armed demons.

A warm weight pressed up against Moxxie’s arm and when he turned to look, his nose brushed against soft black hair, inhaling a whiff of its fragrance. All the tenseness that had been in his body melted. His partner had always been a touchy-feely imp, and Moxxie was weak to that—oftentimes losing his composure.

“What did I say about being nicer to our boss?” Millie reproached, elbowing his side lightly. Seeing his face twist into a put-out expression, she couldn’t help the light feeling that seemed to rise from her stomach like bubbles and made her giggle. 

“...I’m always nice.”

“I know.” Removing her hand from the still-warm corpse, she reached over to stroke the side of Moxxie’s face. Her thumb traced the constellations of freckles on his cheek, and she smiled warmly. “But you don't always have to go at it like cats and dogs. I want to limit his opportunities to make fun of my brilliant husband.”

He felt his face forming into a smitten grin.

Millie leaned in, shoulder-to-shoulder. Under a conspiratorial whisper that only he could overhear, she asked, “So? What do you think they spoke about? You said you saw _some tension.”_

Moxxie’s brows crumpled in thought. Millie watched the familiar, absentminded way he internalized his thoughts before he suggested, “Maybe a hit? Why else would his majesty come here?”

They’d both been surprised that somebody as precious as a prince would come to such a squalid place, even if Imp City was a step higher than the ring of Wrath both Moxxie and Millie hailed from. There were no small amounts of enemies the infernal royal bloodline must have, but the imps never would have fathomed the services they offered would be of interest to the Crown.

It was peaceful now, but it was only a matter of time that their fragile cities would be rocked once more by tribulations and violence, with vast upheavals lurking just below the glittering surface.

“But isn’t he supposed to be powerful?” She looked contemplative as she tapped the hilt of the dagger against her chin. “...Maybe he’s got another purpose.”

“Like what?”

From the background, Blitzø glanced up. At the sight of them, his irritated expression waned. They were so transparent. Their protectiveness over each other was commendable, strangely wholesome even, yet very predictable—especially Moxxie’s—and Blitzø did like playing his games. Adding the finishing touches, he stalked closer toward them.

His footfalls were quiet against the tiled floor.

To avoid their “clients” of the neighboring Pentagram City from suspecting anything was amiss in their Pride ring of Hell, I.M.P. hadn’t cleared out any furniture on the floor they were on. The entire building belonged to them, after Blitzø had earned enough money to buy the commercial property from the landlord and chase out all the tenants, which’d meant all the floors were redesigned to suit the expansion of their small corporation. The room the henchdemons had been instructed to go in was one of their conference room levels. 

If the goal hadn’t been to lure those marks in under pretense, to make cleanup easier I.M.P. would have laid out tarp on the floor and on the walls and windows. Fixtures would have also been covered or removed. 

“What are we going to do with the bodies?” Moxxie eyed one. “...Melt them down with acid?”

“Maybe the boss wants us to saw them up,” Millie suggested, “and put their dismembered limbs into trash bags and suitcases.”

As the couple exchanged ideas earnestly, a sense of fondness spread over Blitzø’s features. Even though his weapons specialist liked cursing him to heaven and back for his impulsive decisions or for accepting cases where the mark seemed innocent, Blitzø had nurtured that untapped talent into competence. The same had been done for his top female assassin who was as ruthless as they come despite her cheery disposition, and had earned Blitzø’s trust as somebody whom he could count on to get the job done.

They were a group of oddballs, a team that, for all intents and purposes, shouldn’t have been as cohesive as it was. And he was the binding agent that held them together.

With a spring in his step, Blitzø launched himself at them. Arms wrapped around their shoulders as he shoved his face between their faces, a fanged smirk splitting his face from horn to horn. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll get rid of the evidence.” His tail swayed left to right. Rubbing his cheeks against theirs, he purred, “Papa’s got it all under control. Don’t you worry your pretty little heads.”

His limbs floundering, with a disgruntled grunt, Moxxie managed to shove the taller imp away. That signature shit-eating grin on Blitzø’s face was enough impetus to flip him off. He demanded, “What did I say about personal boundaries?”

“...There’s none?”

_“No, respect it!”_

As they quibbled, Millie gave a helpless giggle at their antics, her claws hovering in the space above her mouth.

Sometimes she’d fretted over their bickering, often leading to her having to choose between her husband or her boss, but she really wouldn’t have it any other way. She’d never thought she would meet a kind and intelligent imp whom she would fall in love with, and she never would’ve thought they’d be scouted by an older imp who’d claimed he saw potential in them. 

If anything, Blitzø sometimes fell in line as a parental figure—one who was crass and liked to push buttons, but would undeniably go to heaven and back just to protect his family. In Millie’s eyes, their boss was the squirrely type of imp who pretended not to care, but he would be the first to pick up a gun and demand who he’d have to stuff in a body bag if any of his employees were hurt.

 _Time sure does fly by,_ she thought. It also helped that, in all of the nine circles, I.M.P. had become a force to be reckoned with—their services contributing to the culling of their overpopulation, aside from the annual Exterminations. Before I.M.P., she hadn’t thought she’d be part of something big. (All her life, she’d been taught she would be lucky if she found a respectable patron to serve under.)

But his defining goal to establish his start-up as a successful business in the underworld had, against all odds, been fulfilled. It was a benchmark in I.M.P. history when they were acknowledged by their first influential client, with others soon trickling in.

It was safe to say the demons’ impression of imps had been irrevocably changed, however gradual the transformation in attitudes were. But they were making progress.

“And to answer your question,” Blitzø remarked, “he wanted to make me one of the Overlords of Hell. I turned it down for life peerage instead.”

A blanket of stunned silence shrouded them. Both Moxxie and Millie were fixing their homicidal boss with a blank stare, their mouths agape.

“What? Y’know...life peerage?” Blitzø folded his arms over his chest, raising a brow ridge at them. He mentally ran through a list of synonyms. “Noble titles? Status? _C’mon, guys,_ give me something to work with. You’re looking at someone who’s finally made it to the big leagues.”

Millie was the first to break the silence. In a strident volume, she yelled, _“An Overlord!”_ Stamping her feet up and down in place, she clasped her hands together. Her eyes were practically sparkling, seeing him in a new light. “Boss!”

Blitzø laughed, patting the air before him. “I know, I know. Wild, right?”

“Let’s get this straight. You were offered a chance to be an Overlord of Hell….” Moxxie was pinching the space between his eyes as though he could hold off a massive migraine through willpower alone. He exhaled noisily, aggrieved. “With that reputation, you could’ve made a difference. Made imp history. And you...shot it down...for a noble title? Excuse me, sir, what kind of mental gymnastics are you—?”

“You’re looking at the one and only Baron Blitzø, founder and head assassin of I.M.P., at your service.” He swept his arm before him, sketching an exaggerated bow. “To be knighted by his majesty.”

“And what did his majesty ask in return?”

“I just have to give him the best lay he ever had.”

“...You what?”

“I get to fuck bird prince tonight.”

_“You what?”_

“Christ on a stick, Mox, I don’t know how to make it more obvious. _Hey, don’t give me that look._ Who can resist a helluva sexy boss as myself?” Gesturing to himself, as soon as those words fell from his mouth, a shadow abruptly crossed Blitzø’s expression. His smirk dropped as though a realization had just hit him. “...Not that I think anything will happen to me, but I’m only telling you guys this in case something does. Until then, keep your traps shut.”

Millie’s Southern twang filtered into his hearing. “Isn’t he married, Blitz? And with family?”

“...Yeah. I’d rather not get royally fucked over by a jealous, vindictive bitch, thanks. Or have to explain myself and play royal family therapist. So let’s just keep it on the downlow.” 

There hadn’t been any rumors of his infidelity that’d graced Blitzø’s earshot before the meeting. But in Hell, where adulterous souls were as common as the murderers in a sea of Sinners, he wasn’t surprised. Nobles were known to lead decadent lives—royalty, _even more so._

The moral, virtuous ones were in Heaven for a reason. 

Blackmail was also an option, but the great prince of hell had mentioned that he might be needing I.M.P.’s services in the future. While causing scandals was fun, Blitzø saw an opportunity at securing client loyalty when he saw one. 

“Sir….” Despite his usual skepticism at his boss’ schemes, Moxxie sounded hesitant. He was familiar with the lengths their boss was willing to go through for brand recognition. “While we appreciate all that you sacrifice for this company—”

“—I’m flattered by your concern,” Blitzø interjected, waving his claws in dismissal. “But he might be a client of ours at some point. Might as well wiggle into his good graces and get his endorsement. If we’re lucky, maybe some political backing.”

“So you’re saying we might be on-and-off assassins for the crown?” 

“After tonight, why wouldn’t he?” Blitzø rolled his shoulders in a shrug. “Look at it this way. _He’s a special client._ Very powerful—and rich. I’m mostly humoring him to get that snobbish title.” 

The one redeeming quality about this prince, unlike the other aristocratic demons, was that he didn’t seem as prejudiced. From their first face-to-face meeting, he hadn’t given Blitzø any impression whatsoever of looking down at him for his lower station. Blitzø could respect that.

He just hadn’t thought he’d be propositioned in his office—obscenely, in salacious detail. Stolas had been upfront with his desire, seemingly without guile or stratagem. All of his preconceived notions of an elegant and sophisticated avian prince had been irrevocably shattered from that lone interaction. 

Blitzø laid out his thought process for his employees: “That pompous bird has access to the living world. Remember, _our_ marks have been severely limited to the sinners in Hell. But if I’m a good one-night stand, I might be able to forge a professional relationship. And being a baron means I’ll get us even more respect without stepping on anyone’s toes, and access to higher circles. These are just the few benefits in the long run. Honestly, the shit I do for this company. You two have some big shoes to fill after I’m gone. Look at me and tell me I’m not the most valuable member of the team.”

To his surprise, instead of a snarky retort, his weapons specialist seemed deep in thought. Stroking his jaw, he scrutinized Blitzø.

Blitzø batted his eyes purposefully and jutted his mouth out into a wobbly pout. In a baby-like voice, he asked, “Don’t you _twust_ me?”

“...You’re right.” Despite his reservations, Moxxie managed to sound begrudgingly impressed. His face had gone through an entire sequence of expressions, but he’d finally settled for mirroring his wife’s open admiration, although his smile was more exasperated. “Satan forbid I do, but you’re actually right. I don’t think I envy you.”

Blitzø couldn’t resist tormenting Moxxie a little. “That just begs the question....” 

He had originally figured Stolas to be the stuck-up, boring type that read _GQ_ and _Hell Esquire_ luxury lifestyle magazines; yet it’d turned out that the prince was the type who probably kept clippings of pornography and erotic fiction on the downlow. Lust was a cornerstone of the seven deadly sins, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out this was a vice that Stolas indulged in.

Blitzø fixed him with a grim stare. “Do you think the prince is into vanilla sex or do you think a riding crop is necessary to make a strong first impression?”

Moxxie choked on his saliva.

* * *

The royal mansion was a landmark that loomed in the distance, a tall, recognizable feature against the scarlet skies of hell. By daylight, like out of a storybook, it cast its long shadow in the foothills of the province it oversaw. At night, the owls made their nocturnal presence known.

Black sigils encased in a red glow were floating in the air beside Blitzø, symbols unique to his own signature as a rift glowed dimly behind him. He granted the strange blue masonry a withering side-eye for all that it represented. The square footage belonged more to a palace than a mansion, especially with its many acres of open land.

Purple banners spilled from the towers, with the prince’s coat of arms—an emblem featuring a crowned heart in the center, the crown portion of the insignia reminding him of Stolas’ top hat. At night, it was as if the prince had plucked the stars from the galaxies and had scattered stardust onto his home. Constellations could be seen in the cosmic-like walls.

From the exterior, it seemed like the typical floor plan Blitzø expected from his imagination and from hearsay, with the mansion opened to the courtyard below. Fresh leaves, rosehip petals, and conifer needles had yet to be swept from the large, manicured gardens. And if he squinted, past the neatly-trimmed hedges and trees, he assumed he was seeing the glass dome of the royal greenhouse a little into the distance.

A burst of static interrupted his observation. 

Tossing her unruly voluminous mane, a massive steed inclined her head in his direction. A long forelock fell back over her right eye, the same phosphorus blue flame that was her left eye focused on her rider. Her voice trailed off in a distorted screech as she nickered.

The sigils were immediately retracted, vanishing from sight.

Releasing one hand from the row of spikes along her nape, Blitzø leaned down from his perch on her back, his claws petting the mare’s neck. The soles of his leather boots barely reached the rib cage that protruded from her sides. 

The planes of his face were bathed in a crimson glow from the horse’s silhouette. “I know, I know,” he said indulgently. Ignoring the pinprick sensation along his skin, he could feel the strong pulse thrumming beneath the glossy sable coat.

The mare was a monstrous sight, deceptively emaciated and winsome, standing on four spindly legs that somehow reminded Blitzø of scythes. Like the desert heat of an oasis, portions of her body glitched in and out of existence like corrupted data, with what resembled pixels floating around her. He didn’t think his horse resembled any other horses out there, whether in Hell or in the living world.

His fascination with the creatures predated his circus years, a time when he’d begun to feel the pressure of fulfilling “family responsibilities.” The essence of their spirits represented freedom to a young Blitzø; a horse was a strong and resilient force of nature, made of muscles and grit, with a limitless energy at their core. His obsession was only fed further with a chance encounter with this strange, black creature that, for some reason, made other demons run away screaming at the sight of her. 

Their first meeting had been her baring her jaws at him, saliva dripping from rows of sharp fangs and a long slimy tongue.

Fortunately, she’d accepted his humble offering of iced coffee.

He suspected her diet included imps; one time, in the area she’d considered “her territory,” he’d caught her slurping up a familiar spade-like tail like a noodle. Imps were like poodles compared to her. She could easily swallow a demon of his stature in one gulp. 

She also had a mile-wide streak of arrogance, moody and full of aggressive energy. But, because of circumstances, she owed him a favor.

Tonight, in honor of his upcoming promotion, he’d decided her name, for now, would be “Red Death.” Considering the short story it hailed from, he’d thought the moniker to be fitting—and morbidly hilarious. (It was a familiar ritual of theirs. He’d called her many things under the sun, from “Horse” to “Night Mare” to “Lady Poops a Lot.” His personal favorite, so far, had been “Spindle”—which she seemed to like.)

With the nimbleness of a trapeze artist, he dismounted from Red Death, hopping onto the roof quietly. The top of his head just barely reached past her knees. Holding a hand above his eyes, he surveyed the security detail from his vantage. Like a pair of moons, his eyes glowed yellow in the night as the maroon in them focused on the demonic servants making their rounds below. 

He _tsked_ under his breath.

Earlier, he’d gotten a missed text from Stolas reminding him of his promised booty call—although not exactly worded that way—and informing him that the magick wards would register Blitzø as his guest for tonight. Much like the enthroned Magnes in the east, Stolas’ place of residence was an ancient, fortified fortress. No one, not even the most skilled of thieves, could hope to pull off a successful robbery or heist without lacking in self-preservation. The siege of Malphas’ castle was a cautionary tale, where the great raven president of Hell sundered his own stronghold to bury his trespassers.

The mansion seemed to be bustling with activity in the night, the sounds of footsteps echoing. Everyone seemed to know exactly what to do and where to go, like the cogs of a machine. Even their uniforms were proper. He suspected if this were a simple reconnaissance mission, his observations would later be testament to the rigid structure seeped into all aspects within the castle life, allowing for little to no deviation.

“Ugh. Predictable.” It was the antithesis of how Blitzø operated; he did things by spontaneity. The pistol concealed beneath his coat in the holster was a comforting weight. “No wonder you wanted to tap me.”

He might have a healthy ego, but he was not _that_ vain. It was a matter of being at the right place at the right time. He didn’t doubt that Stolas might have flirted with somebody else had the owl prince not crossed paths with I.M.P.’s founder—in a place where the contract killer himself held authority and had likely, _unconsciously,_ given off confident “top vibes.” 

If Blitzø’s glimpse into the royal routine was an accurate representation, it was also no wonder a powerful family demon like Stolas was desperate for a welcome change to his dull world. And were rumors to be believed, the Goetia prince was an intelligent but inconsolably lonely ruler.

To Stolas, Blitzø must have checked off all the boxes. Lowerborn, check. Clean, check. Dangerous, check. Different, check. _Damn sexy,_ check. Check, check, check. 

Tonight was probably a test. _He knew his purpose here was to fulfill a very specific fantasy._ If he performed well, then he’d reap the benefits.

While it wasn’t everyday he could claim he’d fucked a crown prince, on the flip side it wasn’t everyday a crown prince could claim to have been fucked by a head assassin. 

Hot air blew against his nape just as Blitzø was about to dart across the rooftop. “What?” he demanded, slapping a hand over his neck as he twisted around.

Numerous fangs—as sharp as needles—clamped on the back of his coat, making him choke from the unexpected action as Red Death lifted him into the air. The _clip-clopping_ of her hooves echoed in his hearing as she glided across, carrying him as though he’d weighed nothing.

“Hey!” he hissed. His narrow face burned with mortification. He twisted himself right to left, trying to break free. “Put me down!”

If a horse could smirk, it was hidden behind the mouthful of fabric.

When his struggles proved to be fruitless, he crossed his arms mulishly, grumbling quiet profanities under his breath. Like a pendulum, he swung from her jaws with each step. As a kid, he might have enjoyed being moved like how a mother carried her young by their scruff. But he had an image to uphold, damnit.

It felt like forever, but she finally stopped in place somewhere past the long gallery—or was it the main hall?—to the left. Blitzø wasn’t even sure _how_ no one had seen the massive black horse on the rooftop. 

His phone vibrated in his back pocket. Reaching behind him, Blitzø fished it out and glanced at the notification. An immediate scowl sliced across his features.

 _Im hre,_ he started to text back. _Fnding you now. Stay put._

“I swear, if you get caught, don’t blame me…. Woah, woah, _woah!”_

Before he could finish texting, he was dangled over the eave, his horse’s teeth the only security measure keeping him from plummeting into the glittering balcony below. 

From his new vantage, he could see light spilling from the stained glass doors, already thrown open, revealing what appeared to be a familiar master bedroom suite with its gray wallpaper and an abundance of framed portraits hung on one side of the walls. He saw many portraits of Stolas himself— _was he a narcissist or did he have an overinflated sense of ego?—_ and paintings of other owl-demons, undoubtedly his and the queen’s family tree. A recurring subject seemed to be one owl-demon, a series of paintings that depicted her from a fluffy gray owlet—that he thought looked like an ugly muppet—all the way to her adolescence or young womanhood. 

Her taste in style reminded him of his own daughter, Loona, who was into the goth punk fashion.

He blinked owlishly. His death grip on his phone lessened. 

A familiar scent stole into his nostrils, like somebody had been smoking tobacco or aromatic herbs on the balcony moments before. Below on the railing, he could spot two goblets bejeweled with precious stones, a wine bottle, and what seemed like the slim body of an opera-length cigarette holder. The cigarette had been reduced to a stump, grounded out in an ashtray that reminded Blitzø of a paperweight crafted from gold.

 _...Those better not be for me...or because of me._ The thought of it brought about another strange sinking feeling in his gut. Maneuvering himself to see better, Blitzø peeked inside. Skipping the large bed with its heavy velvet curtains, his scrutiny went to the only other figure in the room. 

Stolas’ avian body laid draped over the chaise lounge in a dramatic sprawl of long limbs, his head feathers disheveled as though he’d run his talons through them many times. 

In the intimately private moment, his sleeping robe had fallen to his elbows sensually in a pool of red, calling attention to the slim shoulders and the fluff of gray chest feathers that looked soft to the touch. Upon closer examination, his feathers were dark but not pure gray even in the moonlight. There were flashes of blue iridescence to them, which strangely made sense to Blitzø since owls spent so much time in the night sky that maybe Stolas’ royal lineage might have eventually inherited it.

The prince’s interest was currently engrossed in the pages of a thick book cracked open on his lap. Slim, elegant talons skimmed the words that had been typed into the pages.

From his distance, Blitzø couldn’t make out the embossed title on the maroon hardcover. But he assumed it must be a good read if it distracted the demon’s owl-like sensitivity to hearing and movement.

It couldn’t have been more obvious to him that the ancient demon lived in a world that was the complete opposite of Blitzø’s bloodstained life. Stolas ran with the nobility and demons of high influence, full of tea parties and a decadent lifestyle. Blitzø consorted with the rabble and criminals in a world full of violence and lucrative bloodshed, no longer struggling to make ends meet but still beholden to the memories afore.

He swallowed, tugging at the fastener over his shirt collar. _It’s showtime._

Blitzø opened his mouth. “If I hadn’t found an open door or window….” He saw the book nearly fly out of those dark talons as the prince straightened up on the furniture, his eyes wide as saucers. Maintaining his smirk, Blitzø finished lamely, “...I would’ve tried lockpicking one.”

Stolas’ head had twisted toward the doors; he saw how Blitzø dangled above the sun and moon iconography of the stained glass. Staring at him, those red irises were nearly eclipsed by the white pinpricks of his pupils. “Blitzy?”

He’d looked so openly bewildered, it took every ounce of Blitzø’s will not to crack a joke at his expense.

Blitzø waved in a halfhearted manner. “Hey there, Stolas,” he greeted. His tail swished apprehensively from side to side.

Without much thought to what he was saying, Blitzø recommended, “If I were you, I’d beef up the security. No offense. If I’d been called here for any other reason, I wouldn’t think you’d be my...most _difficult_ mark.”

The mission certainly would not be the easiest, but assassinating Stolas and the rest of his immediate royal Goetia family wasn’t impossible—even with the risk of incurring the wrath of ancient creatures whose ancestors had practiced black magick or necromancy. It’d take a lot of coordination and planning, with months of preparatory work and reconnaissance and tailing the marks until Blitzø and his crew committed to memory everything regarding their habits.

“You should probably think about alternating your guards’ routine—!”

It was at that moment that his horse decided to release him.

His heart stopped. A colorful expletive exploded out of Blitzø’s mouth as he plummeted toward the paved limestone from a soaring height. 

With no time to flip her off, he twisted his body midair. His movements were as fluid as water, an ex-circus performer relying on muscle memory. 

And in no time flat, he landed in a crouch, his claws flat on the balcony, his center of gravity realigned to balance on the balls of his feet.

Reality and memory blurred for one disorientating moment as he fought to collect his breath. He was back in the carnival, bedecked in a ringmaster’s shiny red tailcoat and surrounded on all sides by an avalanche of applause, the faces of the audience flushed with exhilaration from his latest death-defying stunt. 

His heart drummed in his chest, threatening to break free as he slowly rose. 

Once Blitzø glanced up, he finally saw who had been clapping. Having set the book aside, Stolas’s hands came together enthusiastically, repeatedly, announcing his approval at an acrobatic spectacle. A flush of color had arisen below the white facial disc of his cheeks.

An indescribable pleasure filled Blitzø’s head. His legs buckled under him gracefully, until his limber body had lowered with an arm swept before him in deliberate showmanship. In a demonstration of genuflection, he said, “Your highness.”

“Remarkable,” Stolas trilled. “Simply remarkable.”

Loathe as he was to break the magic, Blitzø sensed—rather than saw—something was incoming. Holding his claws out, a dark shape slapped against his palm. He stared down at the object in incomprehension before his mind caught up and his head reared up a minute too late. “Are you serious?” he squawked.

His claws were clenched around a riding crop. 

Red Death didn’t answer her master’s outrage, having vanished from the premises. The rooftop was empty.

Someone had cleared their throat.

Realizing that the sound hadn’t originated from himself, Blitzø sharply glanced across the bedchamber. Silhouetted against the moonlight, he didn’t realize he made for a striking image—arresting in the way his professional attire hugged his trim body, and with an air of danger.

Stolas’ noble profile was reclined back against the upholstery; there was no doubt he’d heard the hoofsteps. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but his gaze was intent at the leather crop held casually between crimson claws. Somewhere between awestruck and bemused, he inquired, “May I ask what you intend to use _that_ for?”

 _On you obviously,_ he’d nearly blurted, _before Moxxie convinced me what a completely batshit crazy idea it was._ To give himself time to mentally scramble for an answer, he pretended to scrutinize the crop as though he were evaluating it for any visual flaw. 

It was a moment of silence that seemed to stretch on for eternity. 

Blitzø could only exhale, acutely aware of the half-lidded gaze fixated on him. “That depends,” he replied, turning the woven handle over in his hands. 

It was a familiar glide of leather across a calloused palm. With a helpless smirk, he propped it over his shoulder, tapping the cane lightly against his collarbone. “If we’re being honest here, it’s a prized possession of mine, so I’d left it behind. I didn’t think my horse would drop it off for me.”

He would get his revenge on her later—one, for abandoning him and two, for embarrassing him like that. And the best revenge he could think of was withholding her favorite treats for at least a month.

There was a rustle of feathers and fabric. Quiet footsteps echoed in the bedchamber as the raptor stalked toward the prey in his sights. The gray plumage trailed the floor behind him like a long veil.

“I have to say I’m surprised by your audacity, Blitzy.” His tone was noticeably friendlier as he waved Blitzø in, gesturing for him to close the doors. “Tell me. Is this how you treat all of your conquests?”

He decided to throw him a lifeline, thrusting the crop against the crook of his arm. As the doors were shut behind him, allowing cockiness to seep in as he stepped forth, he retorted haughtily, “I don’t know...sinners I’ve met tend to be either aroused or frightened in equal measure. Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet.”

A rich chuckle graced his hearing. “You tell me,” he crooned, leaning down. His robe left little to the imagination. 

Blitzø’s mouth went dry upon seeing a glimpse of a naked thigh.

“I am consorting with a fabled assassin of seemingly unscrupulous character. For what it is that you desire of me, I’m afraid, as a crown prince, I’ll need _extra persuasion.”_

 _Of course you do, your royal horniness._ Before he could counter with a witty retort or redirect the conversation into solidifying the terms of the deal, he drew in a sudden, startled breath when Stolas wasted no time trying to rip Blitzø’s clothes off. 

The crop and dark coat having dropped unceremoniously onto the floor, talons began to shred fabric in a haste to unbutton his dress shirt and yank the suspenders off. A strange, soft noise was torn from Stolas’ beak when his talons discovered the concealed firearm in the two shoulder holsters. In an instant, a beak was over his mouth in a ravenous kiss, with Stolas’ freshly-washed scent all around him. Blitzø’s smell of gunmetal and leather intermingled with the scent of old, dusty books, autumn, and aromatic herbs.

It was as if their spirits had touched, carried through the air like a charge of electricity, connecting and shocking away all rationale in a sudden surge of lust. He’d tasted the sweetness of red wine from the bold sweep of tongue against his. 

His mind turned to mush and Blitzø let his instincts take over.

Before he’d realized it, they’d stumbled their way to the bed and he found himself divested somehow of his trousers and the majority of his weapons, now crouched between the legs of a very naked, very aroused owl-demon. The robe had fallen off somewhere and Blitzø was looking face first at his first ever crash course into avian anatomy. 

Sensing no resistance or reluctance on his part, Stolas’ eyes went down to the generous endowment between the imp’s legs. His eyes glowed scarlet. “Oh Blitzy,” he cooed, low and husky, his accent even more pronounced.

One set of talons dropped down to cup Blitzø’s ass possessively. “Such a magnificent specimen. You drive me wild with a need I have not experienced in centuries. I cannot wait to have our cells braided together like living thread, _with your thick, red slimy cock in me._ ” 

Blitzø could nearly hear his molars grinding against each other in his mouth. _Please, please shut up,_ he wanted to beseech, half-wishing he’d brought a ball-gag instead. His attention was spellbound on Stolas’ crotch—or, rather, the lack of familiarity thereof. Unlike Blitzø’s erection which dripped precum at full mast, in Stolas’ most vulnerable area, he saw a small, glistening opening. 

_Focus, adapt, and overcome._ Blitzø repeated the mantra in his head as he forced himself to come to terms of where his dick was about to enter.

Talons were skimming along Blitzø’s sides and flanks in light touches, tactile and lingering like a sculptor molding clay, exploring the smoothness and any raised skin left over from past scars. “There are so many parts of you I haven't seen yet, that I'm dying to explore.” Stolas’ warm breath tickled his face. He was gauging his reaction. “I wonder if I can pluck you from the shadows and keep you in a vase by my bedside, just so you could torment me night and day whenever I so desire.”

Just the way he spoke—the sound of his words, like a promise—sent a strong, answering pulse through Blitzø’s body.

“Blitz?”

“...I once bit a guy’s throat out,” he professed, leveling him with a disapproving look, “because he was being too noisy when I stabbed him.” 

Maybe it might have been the sultry atmosphere, or he’d helped the prince stumble upon an undiscovered turn-on, but Stolas’ expression was caught between being affronted and wanting to _eat_ him.

“If you can still talk, I’m probably not doing a decent job yet,” Blitzø concluded. “Let me change that.” With a strength that surprised Stolas, Blitzø flipped him in his arms, roughly but with care, shoving his figure down against the rumpled, burgundy silk covers of the massive bed. 

His breath escaped in a whoosh. A strangled moan of bliss was torn from him when Blitzø hiked those tapered hips up until he had him at the right angle, exposed and vulnerable, and Blitzø gave a teasing lick with that perfect, curling forked tongue of his. 

_“Blitz!”_

His focused ministrations made something burn low and deep in Stolas’ belly, singeing all the sensitive nerve endings in the lower half of his body. All of his muscles turned to liquid at the short jabs of a skilled tongue coaxing him open. When the staccato thrusts alternated with sensuous licks, Stolas gasped wetly.

Time lost all meaning in a blissful fog of animal pleasure. The tip of a claw began to encircle the saliva-soaked hole in a slow, maddening journey that made Stolas bury his face in the armful of pillows he’d clutched, muffling his keening sounds of need as the claw began to slide into his body repeatedly, searching, probing, and questing. Through muddled thoughts, Stolas thought deliriously that the imp was preparing him with the same efficient care he afforded to his weapons.

When the imp found the one spot inside that caused his entire world to tilt on its axis, a current ran up Stolas’ spine. It was a full-body shudder that caused his tail feathers to lift and his sharp beak to tear into a pillow, causing white feathers to tumble out.

His groans were like some long forgotten melody as he rocked back to greet the welcome intrusion, like he’d been waiting for this for a thousand years, spread wide and aching to be filled. At this point, maintaining appearances mattered little to Stolas. Even without seeing him, he was hyper-aware of Blitzø’s presence, the exquisite pressure of the hand braced against Stolas’ left hip, his regard, and his single-minded focus on teasing him—until Stolas’ body yielded to his touch.

He thought he might die if Blitzø left him in this state. Rasping in strained erotic stupor, he chanted Blitzø’s name like an incantation, with a barely-vocalized new scripture of “please, please, please, harder; wreck me, please.” His eyes were squeezed tight in anticipation when he felt a brief, cool breeze suddenly against his nether regions.

Stolas concentrated on breathing deeply, relaxing his muscles, steeling himself for the penetration—for the stretch and a bit of a burn. It’d been far too long since his last copulation, since he’d last been serviced. As far as he was concerned, his body was a fresh, clean slate.

There was the unmistakable searing ridge of an erection pressed against his ass. When he shifted to glance over his shoulder, bracing his weight on his elbow, there was a look of delighted surprise and wonder on Stolas’ face at the foreign length that was to breach him. He felt a tremor of something between thrill and trepidation; the crimson glow of his eyes granted him the impression of a blush underneath. 

“Stop staring at it, Stolas.” The rebuke was slightly strained, avid with the same lust he felt.

He swallowed hungrily, imagining how it’d taste swallowing him up to the root. He’d never pleasured a lover personally in that manner before. “But a delectable morsel is meant to be _savored.”_

“...Jesus fucking Christ. One step at a time, alright?” With an exasperated groan, Blitzø eased him back onto the bed. Cupping one hand on a feathery hip, he pressed forward, slow but deliberate, applying gradual pressure on his opening.

All of a sudden, Stolas was hyper-aware of every sensation—how his body instinctively tensed from an archaic flight instinct, the brief pain of the intrusion, and how every inch of his body that felt Blitzø’s skin came alive at the same time, a rush of heat flooding _into_ him—and it was the most incredible sensation, an imp sliding inside him; Blitzø, _inside him._ Stolas gasped in one deep breath at the stretch and the indescribable fullness. His face was etched with something between pleasure and agony.

A satiated purr vibrated above him. It reverberated in his hearing, pouring down the nerves to the nape of his neck, warm like the liquid heat of cognac sliding down his throat.

He must have said Blitzø’s name, for no sooner than that, the rumbling from the imp abruptly stopped. Sharp teeth nipped the juncture of Stolas’ neck, biting and kissing him, claws expertly stroking along the sides of his feathery torso.

Moaning into his mouth, Stolas could feel every inch of himself being consumed, taken over by sensation. There was no waiting, no patient period of acclimatization. Blitzø began to experimentally thrust into him, the last veneer of his mercy stripped away when Stolas bucked back into him impatiently, desperate for friction and release, a hidden reserve of fire ignited within him. 

All higher thought fled him. His body was filled with the warmth of belonging, of completion. Blitzø’s cock was like a solid bar of iron in him. 

Clawing at the bedsheets, Stolas was burning, aflame with the relentless assault on his body, incapable of getting out more than a few guttural words at a time. His mouth moved in a soundless mantra of ecstasy, unintelligible profanities flooding his mind. 

He gave in completely to his own pure need, riding out the first shuddering onset of climax. 

Stolas groaned in an explosive, luxurious release—a purely physical, violent release of something that had been pent up and constrained for so long. It was the kind of orgasm he'd had when he was young and just discovering it, but much more powerful—an instinctual, visceral, animal reaction. 

He was exhausted and stunned when it was over, yet he almost instantly felt the siren’s call of arousal again. His channel clenched and unclenched around the turgid length in him, and he’d realized belatedly that his orgasm must have triggered the assassin’s as well.

Their fornication had been exhilarating to a terrifying degree. _He desired more._

“Blitz,” he breathed. 

There was that look again, the one that reminded Blitzø of a predator. 

Blitzø took a couple of calming breaths and shook his head to clear the fog that’d filled his brain. He hid his apprehension behind a half-smirk, half-grimace. “I guess there’s no time like the present. Would you be appalled if we discussed the logistics of my baronage right about now?”

_“Blitz.”_

It must be the serotonin in his system, but there was something strangely appealing about seeing the prince sweaty and disheveled, less perfect than his put-together public image.

Their bodies were joined intimately, connected at the most base level, the deepest that souls could connect—short of making a demonic contract. A prince and a killer—of whom the prince had promised title and land. 

If he were anyone else, he’d think it was ironic that he had essentially fucked his way to the top. Casual sex and casual affection. He refrained from laughing.

This was a tale he might tell his future grandkids, if he wasn’t ordered to keep quiet and take it to his grave.

“We can just shake hands on it and we have ourselves a deal,” he insisted, affecting a tone of casual indifference that rang a little false. “A ceremony isn’t necessary or whatever it is you higherborn demons do.”

In partial shadow, Stolas fixed him with a stare, his body still undergoing the aftereffects of their hedonistic abandon. His chest rose and fell erratically with each panting breath.

Realizing that keeping his dick inside his conversational partner was probably impolite, Blitzø was just about to pull out when Stolas abruptly turned over, wrapping the graceful lines of his legs around Blitzø's waist and surging closer. His arms folded over Blitzø’s shoulders as, with the readjustment, Blitzø had bottomed out once more in his tight heat. 

Warm puffs of air were exhaled millimeters away from his mouth. A set of talons reached up to cradle the back of Blitzø’s skull. His voice wielded like a caress, he murmured, “Do stay the night.”

Blitzø immediately balked at the idea. His tail shot straight up. “I don’t think that’s a—”

“Do. Stay. The night.” There was a command to his words, and the deliberate roll of his hips scattered away all the coherency from Blitzø’s brain. He nuzzled his face against the top of Blitzø’s head, and then the side of his face, and at the junction of his neck. “We’ll just need a notary, and Hell shall have its new baron in the coming morning.”

Blitzø faltered. His employees were going to be livid when they found out their boss stayed the night at another demon’s house—a married one, at that. 

He decided to throw all caution to the wind. Amends would have to be made. For Millie and Moxxie, he’ll sneak soda and iced coffee into their fridge. 

For Loona, since it was cutting into their father-and-daughter bonding time, Blitzø was going to make it up to her by taking her on a shopping trip to her favorite outlet—Stylish Occult. Hopefully that’d make up for worrying her.

“...Ugh, fine. Just...let me text Loonie.” _Now where the hell was his phone?_

The preening paused, and Stolas lifted his face. “Yes, you have a daughter.”

“...What about my daughter?” Blitzø asked, narrowing his eyes. He was not above starting wars and burning cities if a one-night stand dared to besmirch her to his face. 

Stolas smiled at him. He disclosed in a conspiratorial whisper, “If her father is to be a baron and conferred territory, his daughter should naturally receive a courtesy title as well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you know the red book, _you know._ Blitzo’s energy in this chapter basically exudes [Josh Young’s Broadway performance](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=jdYgWa5hA_4). ~~We can see why Stolas might be feeling a little hot and bothered, haha.~~
> 
> I’m...somewhat surprised yet also not surprised to hear that Stolas is supposedly more powerful than Alastor, and that his unconfirmed powers work differently from him. Our. Precious. Dorky. And. Horny. Owl. Dad. Omg. I’m so excited for the second episode and the rest. (Plus, the rumor that Blitzo’s ultimate story arc in the show will be emotional? ...I am so ready for the feels!)
> 
> Canon, twitter, and “Voxtagram” are my primary inspirations for this ficlet. I’m looking forward to seeing what they produce! Also, for those in the know about our murder gremlin being a hippophile, see [ Spindle’s design from this twitter post](https://mobile.twitter.com/probfakeblonde/status/1304731553210290177). There are also a couple posts of his old horse on [Blitzo’s Instagram account](https://www.instagram.com/p/CFCCfgmgCWc/?igshid=fcw7tfepcq1b).
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving!
> 
> *EDIT: UPDATE, WE HAVE RECEIVED CONFIRMATION FROM EP2! STOLAS’ WIFE IS NAMED STELLA!

**Author's Note:**

> _Previews and sneak-peeks are posted on my[tumblr](https://phoenixtakaramono.tumblr.com/tagged/preview). Do let this writer know what you think! :) _


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